Crossing Boundaries
by LilySheeran
Summary: Hunger Games AU. Kurt Hummel is just an average textile factory worker in District Eight. Blaine Anderson is the son of the new Head Gamemaker, Atticus Anderson. How will their paths collide? Klaine.
1. Beginnings

**Hey guys! Sorry I've been gone for a while, but I'm back with a whole new fanfic! The characters are semi-OOC, but, hey, they are in totally different circumstances than they normally are. Anyways, enjoy! ~LilySheeran**

"Ow," I mumble. I manage to pull my finger out of the machine, but it takes a good amount of effort. I'm bleeding, and my blood splashes into the palm of my hands and onto the floor.

Fuck.

"Hey, Tina? Can I have some of your water?" I ask.

Tina turns to me, her hands on her hips. She rolls her eyes. "Cut yourself again?"

"Well, yeah."

She sighs. She takes my hand, now drenched in blood, and wipes it off with water. Soon, my hand is completely clean.

"You might want to put a bandage on that. If the boss knows you stuck your finger in the machine again, he'll kill you." Tina states.

"Yeah, or he'll send me to a peacekeeper for a beating," I add.

"What a lovely district we live in," Tina murmurs sarcastically.

We go back to work, and I work in peace until I feel a hand on my shoulder.

"Mr. Hummel, may I look at your hand for a second?" my boss asks. Chills creep up my spine.

"Um… Sure sir…" I show him the hand that wasn't injured.

The boss laughs. His piercing, soulless blue eyes meet mine. "I think you know which hand I'm referring to, Mr. Hummel."

I gulp. My hand falls to my side, limp. I show him my other hand.

"Aha!" my boss says. "I suppose my sneaking suspicion was right."

"I'm… I'm sorry I just—"

"Mr. Hummel, what is the purpose of District Eight?"

"To create textiles, sir."

"Right. And do you know what it's _not _for?"

"I—"

"Medicine." My boss' face falls. His eyes are staring directly into my soul, and I shrink to the size of an ant. "Next time I'm going to take away half of your pay, and do you know what I'll do the time after that?" He inches closer me, his face centimeters from mine. "Well, you don't want to find out that, do you?"

I am silent. I am being choked from the inside. My voice box has shut down, terminated.

"Get back to work, Mr. Hummel. And, Miss Chang?"

"Yes," Tina says.

"Don't help your little friend next time, okay? If you do, you'll be suffering just as much as he is. Understood?"

"Yes sir," she states.

The boss walks away to bother another worker.

"I guess you'll have to be more careful next time, if you want to keep your job," Tina says.

"If this is my life, Tina, what's the point of living?" I ask.

"I don't know Kurt. I don't know."

"Ah, well isn't it Mr. Anderson's son!"

I smile. "Pleasure to meet you, President Snow."

"Call me Coriolanus, Blaine." The President says. He smiles, and I am suddenly frozen in place, unsure of what to do next. The President extends his hand, and I catch a whiff of roses and blood. I stand there, staring at his hand.

"Son, shake President Snow's hand," my father says. He turns to Snow. "My son's just nervous. He knows how important you are to Panem. He really looks up to you, you know."

Total bullshit.

I shouldn't complain, I guess. Bullshitting is how my dad got the job as Head Gamemaker, after all.

President Snow's smile grows wider. I notice how the wider his smile gets, the more frightened I am.

"Ah, don't worry boy. I don't bite." President Snow laughs. I gulp, and force the corners of my mouth to perk up.

My dad pats my back lightly. It seems like a friendly gesture to Snow, but my father is digging his nails into my spine, as if to say, "watch it".

"Would you like to meet my granddaughter, young man? She is _very _eager to meet you." Snow touches me lightly on the shoulder, and I have the urge to pull away and run.

"Uh, sure, sir… I mean President… I mean…"

"Coriolanus," the President says. President Snow laughs, and I can finally see them. Two sores almost parallel to one another, red and inflamed. I feel bile rising up my throat. "I'll be right back."

President Snow exits the room, the smell of blood and roses left behind. My father turns to me.

"Look, I know you hate Snow, and I know you don't like the Games, but could you at least _try _to act like you care?" My father asks.

"The latter isn't true, actually; I don't dislike the Games. I _loathe _them."

"Well it must be terrible for you to have your father be Head Gamemaker isn't it? It must be terrible to have food wherever you want, whenever you want. It must be terrible to have every luxury possible in the Capitol. It must be atrocious to go to the top schools, to attract the best looking women—"

"I don't even like women."

"Well, we can't let anybody know that, now can we?" My father says. "It will cause a riot in the Capitol. You know certain people aren't as… Accepting as others."

I shrug.

"Would you really rather be a coal miner in Twelve? Because I can send you there now, say you were plotting to start another rebellion. It's really that easy, kid."

My dad can truly be an ass sometimes.

"Fine. You owe me," I state, my arms crossed.

"If anything, you owe me."

The President enters the room, his arm around a young girl. She looks at me and beams. I uncross my arms and give her a half-assed smile.

Maybe I should take up on dad's offer, after all.


	2. The Reapings

**Hey guys! So, just to make things more clear, the first half of the story is in Kurt's perspective and the second half is in Blaine's. Alright, enjoy! ~LilySheeran**

"Fun day, right?" Tina says as we walk to the center of town.

"Hey, at least we get the day off," I respond.

"Aren't you nervous, though? I sure am."

"Maybe a little. But come on. It's our last year. Soon, we won't have to feel nervous. And if we don't have kids, we'll be totally safe."

"Well, we already know you won't, Mr. I-Think-The-Head-Peacekeeper-Is-Hot," Tina taunts.

"Shut up," I mumble. "It's not like you don't."

"Oh, I do. It's just biologically correct for me to."

I smack her on the arm.

"Ow!" she yells, clutching her arm. I glare at her, hard. Her face softens, and her eyes drift to the ground. "Sorry."

"You better be. Now come on, we're going to be late." I take Tina's hand and run to the town square.

"Name?" the Head Peacekeeper asks. His grey eyes meet mine, and I am suddenly ten times more nervous than I was before.

"Uh… You're… I mean I'm…"

The Head Peacekeeper rolls his eyes. "I don't have all day."

"Kurt Hummel," I mumble, my cheeks a tomato red. Tina laughs hysterically behind me. The Head Peacekeeper pricks my finger and I am led to the eighteen-year-old boys section. I look around, and I see some familiar faces. Lots of guys from the factory. They all look scared. Even the factory is better than the Games.

I look across the stage and notice Tina. Our eyes meet. She gives me a slight smile, and I return it.

"Welcome, citizens of Eight, to the reaping of the sixty-first Hunger Games!" the escort for Eight, Angola DeVine, shouts at the crowd. She seems more horrified of the grief-stricken faces and filthy, angry people in the crowd than excited. "Ladies first, as always."

"Yeah, that's what you told me, alright! That's what you tell all of us _victors_! We're so fucking special that we get to go fucking first, isn't that right? Well, isn't it?!" the sole mentor, Velvet Gracile shouts. Her eyes look like they are about to bulge out of her head. She may be fifty-five, but she's still as angry and broken as always. Ever since she came home after a Games where every tribute was dropped into a pool of lava, and she, being an incredibly thin twelve year old and therefore less dense than the lava, was able to survive, she has been a mess. Every year since then she's had to mentor, and every year she pulls some stunt.

Two Peacekeepers approach her and push her down. They hold her down as she tries to stand back up again. One Peacekeeper puts his thick and heavy hand over her mouth, almost suffocating her.

Angola looks frightened. Her gold eyelashes flutter, and she nervously pulls a strand of cyan-colored hair out of her eyes. "Moving on," she says. "Our District Eight female for the sixty-first Hunger Games is…" she reaches her bony hand into the bowl, trying to fish for a random slip. She pulls out a slip from the very bottom of the bowl, and starts to read it.

"Rachel Berry!"

A cry is heard from the eighteen-year-old girls. A girl, standing at about five feet tall, presumably Rachel, has started to sob.

"Daddy!" she shouts. "Daddy! Please help me!"

A peacekeeper walks over to Rachel and drags her to center stage. She is well dressed, and her expensive mascara rolls down her face in perfect tear-shaped drops.

She must be the kid of a factory owner.

Serves her right to learn what real hardship is.

I look to the eighteen-year-old girls section again, and my eyes meet Tina's. She is beaming. She'll never have to go into the Games. She is safe, free.

"And now for the boys," Angola says.

* * *

"Ice wine?" Sebastian asks, his eyebrows cocked. He pours some of the cold blood-red liquid into his glass before offering it to me. The glass reflects the busy streets of the Capitol, and it shows how beautiful the city really is. Still, I'm not tempted.

"I don't drink," I state.

"Come on, Blaine! Live a little! It's the first day of the Games. It's a day for excitement, for risks."

"I don't think the Games is something to celebrate," I mumble.

"Oh come on, isn't it fun? The beautiful costumes, the beautiful weapons, the beautiful… men?" He touches my hand lightly, his ice blue eyes mischievous.

"I guess so, until they all start killing each other that is."

Sebastian rolls his eyes, both annoyed at my comment and my rejection of his advances. "Don't be such a buzzkill, Blaine. Here, just try some of my wine." Before I can object, Sebastian is pouring wine into my mouth. I reluctantly swallow. My taste buds tingle with delight, and a warm feeling overwhelms me. "See? I knew you'd like it." Sebastian fills my glass to the brim.

"I might not have liked it. What if I didn't like it? What if you're just misreading me?" I tease.

"I know you liked it, Blaine. I know you. Which is why I took you here instead of leaving you with your family for the reapings."

I gulp. Sebastian has a point. Being at a fancy restaurant with a guy who never stops pursuing me is way better than being home with my father during the reapings; he'd smile as each tribute was reaped, as he knew he would be able to kill them in an instant, some way, some how. "That isn't terribly hard to figure out."

Sebastian shrugs. Then, he turns his attention to the television that has been wheeled to the middle of the restaurant. "Ooh, the reapings must be starting!" he practically squeals. He takes my hand, locking his fingers through mine and squeezing.

I sit, blankly staring at the screen as each tribute is reaped. It's always the same; the tributes from One, Two and Four always volunteer, the kids from Three always look like they're going to murder you, the kids from Six look like they've been through Hell and back. Eight is always funny to watch, though. Either you get some old factory kid, boring defeated and dry, or a rich kid, who always throws a temper tantrum.

The girl seems to be one of those rich kids. It's funny watching her call for her father. She throws her bag to the ground in defeat.

The escort looks petrified. She quickly pulls out a slip from the boy's bowl, the slip resting at the very top of the pile. "Kurt Hummel!" she shouts.

A boy walks to center stage. He doesn't seem like a rich kid, since he isn't throwing a temper tantrum or wearing particularly nice clothing, but he seems different from the other factory kids; more confident, more cool, and just plain _different. _I smile. I want to be there with him, I want to be his friend.

Hell, even more than a friend.

"I think the Games just got a lot more interesting," I say to Sebastian as I squeeze his hand harder than before.


End file.
